


Item Return

by Capucine



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Twins, Angst, Delusions, Family Drama, First Meeting Goes Horribly Awry, Gen, Harm to Children, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Kidnapping, Mistaken Identity, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Psychological Drama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-05-02 01:34:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 17,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5228882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Capucine/pseuds/Capucine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Tim Drake and Jason Todd were identical twins separated at birth? What if they had no clue, and Tim was taken in by the Drakes, and Jason was taken in by one family (the Todds) but ended up on the streets anyway?</p>
<p>What if a grief-stricken Batman mourning for Jason can't tell the difference?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I challenged myself to use one of the AU ideas on the randomly selected page, and I settled on the Twins AU--and things just snowballed from there. I hope you guys like it!
> 
> Also, Tim would probably not realize he looked like Jason, because most people, when shown someone with their face/who looks just like them don't recognize it. Cause y'have a different perception of your face than you would if you saw it on someone else. :)

Bruce had been in a dark place after Jason and...the Joker. After it.

After finding out what happened from secondhand sources, Dick wasn't talking to him—not since the relative screaming match when he'd demanded to know why the hell he hadn't told him little wing was _dead_ , ( _'You were on Tamaran--' 'I came back a month ago, Bruce!'_ ), why he had been allowed to miss the funeral or why there wasn't at least _something_ for him to hold on to from Jason, something for him to have closure ( _'It was closed-casket funeral for obvious reasons. You weren't needed.'_ ), how the hell Bruce hadn't had time to tell him himself, how he had to find out from the files at Titans Tower cause apparently there was time to update _that_ but not to contact him ( _'This is unforgivable, Bruce!'_ ) and Bruce had hit him.

So, relative silence, Alfred also in mourning, also trying to keep them held together with his handy little stitches and pins.

Bruce let himself be absorbed into his work as Batman more than ever, let his Bruce Wayne self flag. People gave him space, allowing that he was grieving his son, even if Jason had always left a bad taste in their mouths.

They always knew he'd get himself killed young. It was probably drugs, according to them.

He didn't hear from Dick about Tim. He didn't hear from anyone about Tim until the boy wanted to be seen—and then, his heart had nearly stopped, wondering if he was going insane.

What he saw was Jason, a paler, less scarred-up Jason with a different haircut standing before him, earnest green eyes peering up at the whites of his cowl.

He stopped himself from seizing the boy, it couldn't be, Jason was dead, he'd seen it himself. He was going insane.

“Batman—I'm, uh, Tim Drake. You might know me already, but most people don't notice me, so...anyway.” Jason, who turned out to be Tim, cleared his throat. “I've been watching you, for, uh, a long time, and I know this isn't you. It isn't how you are and how you want to be--”

“Who are you?” Batman demanded, unsure if he'd heard Tim Drake or if it was a joke.

Tim shifted uneasily, clearly unsure if he was in the presence of someone far gone. “Tim. Timothy Jackson Drake. I live on Turner Street, not too far from Wayne Enterprises.”

Now he knew he was imagining things. Turner Street? That was a residential street, very middle class. Why would the Jason lookalike even know that? “Jason. This isn't funny,” he said, mouth a bit dry.

Tim looked a little afraid at that, but pressed on. “I'm not Jason, I'm Tim. Timothy Jackson Drake. Remember? I live on Turner Street, just down from where you work during the day—I know who you are.”

Batman stared blankly. He felt stupid, but it was possible he hadn't slept in at least three days—and not gotten a full night's rest for well over two weeks or more. He'd finally caught the sleeping draught that Alfred was sneaking into his drinks, and with the mess with Dick...there was no way he was sleeping.

He had dreams when he slept.

But Turner Street...he felt like he'd know about some kid tailing him at work or something.

He flicked out a batarang, closing in on the boy. This had to be a trick.

Jason-Tim flinched backwards, hands held out in a conciliatory gesture. “Bruce, please—I just want to help. I've been keeping an eye on you and the rest of the bat family. I know Jason—I know what happened to him. And I know that it's really, really messed you up.”

He knew what happened to Jason because he _was_ Jason. This was the conclusion Bruce had leapt to. It made sense—something had happened to bring Jason back to life. Superman had come back to life before—so had other heroes, even normal human ones. Never mind the softer tone, the untrained stance, the smoother, more unmarked skin—this was Jason, brought back to him.

It had been undone. 

He could have wept for gratitude, but instead, he pinned Jason tightly against his chest, making the boy make a frightened squeak. “Mr. Wayne?”

“I told you. You can call me Bruce,” Bruce said, mind seeming to crackle a little. No, this was Jason, never mind the way he'd stiffened under his touch. That was a residual thing—dying had to be traumatic, and he'd be stupid if he ignored Jason's needs again—emotional or otherwise.

“No, you didn't--” Jason started, but Bruce held him tighter.

Fifteen. Jason had been fifteen the day he died—he would be sixteen soon. Jason seemed to have wasted some, his muscle mass very much gone, very soft and pliable to the touch, but it would be all right—Jason wouldn't need the muscle again.

He would keep him safe this time.

When he lifted Jason, Jason flailed, as best as he could. “Mr. W-Way--!”

“Jason, it's Bruce,” Bruce assured him in as gentle and caring a tone as he could.

Jason let out a sort of scared sound, but he was just disoriented, maybe brainwashed or something. It would be all right, Bruce would fix things—it wasn't often you got a second chance, and he was seizing this one.

He flew into the night, Jason letting out a terrified little moan as his arms finally wrapped around Bruce, holding tightly. He was holding tightly enough to potentially bruise.

Bruce wasn't stupid enough to think it was affection—he could tell fear when he saw it. He was able to notice details like that—he was observant. 

Jason clearly didn't remember—his brain had surely been scrambled. Bruce seemed to recall, in faint memory, some hero arising from the dead and being batshit insane or directed by evil energies—it was normal. They could work past it.

Jason was surprisingly quiet on the way back to the batcave, not fighting him when he kept him held close on his lap in the batmobile, despite his usual protests about being 'practically an adult, Bruce!' before whenever Bruce carried him or anything similar.

It made sense. This Jason was traumatized and brainwashed. Or just traumatized and in a fugue.

Yes, that explained it: a dissociative fugue. Bruce knew about these things, had seen cases before where people simply ran away and established whole new lives, completely blocking out memories of the past.

He was relieved, and carried Jason out of the batmobile and into the batcave.

Jason was looking around wide-eyed, and he swallowed thickly. “M—Bruce, I'm...I'm not Jason. I don't know why you think I am, but I'm not. My parents are Janet and Jackson Drake. I'm a 4.0 GPA student at Gotham High. I'm a photographer, sort of—I have aunts and uncles, and I've been with my family since, well, birth--”

“No, you haven't. You're confused, Jason. Don't worry, it will be okay,” Bruce assured him.

He put up a window on the computer, and took Jason's finger, as Jason continued to protest.

“I'm not Jason, Bruce. I'm Timothy Jackson Drake, I've been watching you, Dick, and then Jason for years—I'm not Jason—Ow!”

Bruce took the sample of blood, but set it aside quickly to carefully clean and bandage the spot. It was a sterile instrument, but he couldn't take any chances with Jason. Who knew what his immune system was like? Then he put the sample into the computer.

He'd brought up Jason's file, a grinning Robin in the picture—Jason, when he was younger. He would've felt remorse, but Jason was here now, was all right, for the most part—fixable.

“It's not going to match, Bruce, I'm not Jason,” Jason said quietly, as if preparing for an oncoming storm.

When the screen lit up, full match, a sharp gasp came from Jason.

“Wh—what? No, that's not—I'm not Jason, I'm not! There's something wrong with your machine!” he said frantically, panicked.

“It's okay, Jason. I'm going to help you,” Bruce said simply.

Then Jason tried to run, heading for the drive platform out.

Bruce hated it, but he couldn't let Jason hurt himself, and he was clearly freaking out—it was only a stab with a syringe, barely hurt, even if Jason did look at him with terrified eyes for a moment.

Then he was slumped over, and Bruce gently carried him to the med table.

He would keep him safe, no matter what.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things just keep getting worse for Tim--and Bruce's faith in his being Jason is only being bolstered by his attempts to refute it.

Jason had come awake a good time later. Bruce wondered if he'd given him a bit much, but as Jason's eyes groggily slid open, that familiar green taking in the room with mild confusion, he felt a bit relieved.

“Hello, Jason. How are you feeling?”

Jason jerked up, but was stopped short by the restraints. He seemed to start to panic, which Bruce had expected, so he gently stroked back his hair, promising him, “It's all right, Jason. I promise it's all right. You're safe. You're never going to be hurt again.”

A shiver seemed to go through Jason, but rather than insisting he wasn't Jason, he said, softly, “Bruce, please take a step back and think about this situation.” His voice was sleepy, half-asleep, almost, but trying to be calm.

Bruce sighed. It wasn't the most Jason thing to say, but then, adopting a new personality was a fugue thing as well—and presumably, if he had forgotten the trauma, it might influence how he acted as well. Believing he was a well-adjusted middle class kid would make him act different than a street kid. “Jason, I know you're confused. You need to stay calm and let me help you—I'm your...your father.”

Jason's lips pressed into a thin line, trapped between his teeth. He was clearly thinking, a bit sluggish due to the sedative. He tested a wrist strap, but it was made to hold people much stronger than him, and he seemed to realize that. “Bruce, think. How many people come back from the dead?”

“A few. A small few, and you're one of them,” Bruce said stubbornly. “Your chances of dying may go up as a superhero, but so too does your chance of coming back to life. I've seen it happen before, with Superman and others—once I piece together what caused your resurrection of sorts, I will know why.”

“Bruce,” Jason said, still in that 'I am calm and rational' voice, “You buried Jason on these grounds, right? Presuming this is still Wayne Manor? He is still there. I am not him.”

Bruce sighed. He started to unstrap Jason, then said, “I will prove it to you, then. Promise me you won't run.” Though, of course, he knew Jason's word wasn't always one hundred percent.

He knew that.

But Jason considered this, nodding slowly after a bit. “All right. All right, that will settle things.”

He was unstrapped, and carefully got to his feet. He followed Bruce, seemingly not caring that he was now in stocking-feet. But Bruce stopped him, and handed him sturdy shoes—his own, from a life he didn't remember.

Hesitantly, Jason put them on, shocked to find they fit. But then he followed Bruce dutifully, out of the secret entrance and into the manor. His eyes widened a bit, on seeing the living area and all the items within, but he turned his face back to business quickly.

It was nice to see the sense of wonder was not completely gone, even if a bit restrained.

They trooped out to the graveyard, where Bruce's parents were buried, where his grandparents and so on were buried—where Jason had been buried.

Had been, because it was quite clear his grave had been dug up, fresh dirt piled where it had once had a bit of sparse grass and a small group of roses that Alfred had planted.

Jason's eyes were wide, his mouth moving without words coming out. Then, he finally said, “That doesn't mean the body isn't there. That doesn't mean that. It could be something else, or-or a trick, or something.”

He swallowed thickly, fear seeming to play on his face.

Bruce obliged, anything to set Jason's mind at ease, and got a shovel. He dug it up, digging only two feet before reaching the coffin—definitely the wrong depth. He would have hesitated on opening it, only he knew that Jason wasn't there, that there would not be a mangled corpse looking up at him.

And there wasn't. He felt pure relief, almost happiness, flood his system, and looked to Jason. “See?”

Jason was white as a sheet, stuttering badly enough that Bruce couldn't even guess what he was trying to say.

Then he turned, trying to run again.

Bruce caught him easily, holding him tightly but in a close, warm hold, not that of a vigilante stopping a criminal. “Jason. Jason, it's okay. It's okay. You're safe now, I've got you.”

That was about when Jason lost it, screaming and struggling. “I'm not Jason, I'm not Jason, please, please, I don't know what's going on, but you have to let me go, please!”

Bruce lifted him easily, despite his struggles to get away. If Jason was of sound mind, then he'd want to be here, would want Bruce caring for him. Would want to go back to his normal self. “I know it's hard now, but we'll fix things. Take some deep breaths; you'll remember soon enough, we'll get through this.”

Jason burst into sobs, still struggling anyway. “I want to go home—I want to go home!”

“You are home,” Bruce said, as gently as possible, recognizing that this would be hard for Jason to accept, to come back to. After all that had happened to him, he was allowed a break from reality—for a time.

“My mom and dad, they'll be worried sick--” he said, voice desperately trying to draw back to rational, calm.

“They're not your mom and dad; I'm your father,” Bruce replied, trying to impart this to Jason, trying to trigger a memory. “Do you remember how excited you were when I first got the papers signed? How you signed in those scratchy letters of yours? I've never seen a signature quite so sloppy—besides a doctor's. You were grinning, trying not to show how happy you were.”

The noise that Jason made was distinctly not happy, and he made another jerk, trying to break out of Bruce's grip.

That wasn't going to happen.

Bruce wished he'd done more for Jason, in some ways—he'd given him schooling, shelter, food, medical care, and support—but he felt like he could have been more affectionate. More loving. He still remembered when Jason was at his smallest, when he was still in awe of the fact he was here—sometimes he'd tentatively try to cuddle, would slide into the space between Bruce's arm and body while he was watching television or something similar.

Obviously, Bruce should have returned it more, should have done more than just loop an arm around him and continue on. Jason should have felt more loved. He shouldn't have felt the need to reconnect with a mother he knew had never cared for him.

If Bruce had only made him feel content, he wouldn't have sought her out.

Such a thing would not happen again. Jason would know. He would know he was loved, not forgotten or a replacement for Dick.

They made it back inside the manor, and down to the batcave once again, despite a couple more attempts to struggle free. Jason did not remember a thing, which was sad, but fixable, unlike being deceased, so Bruce didn't let it upset him.

He could put up with anything, as long as Jason was alive.

He was strapping Jason back down on the bed, apologetically saying, “I'm sorry, but I can't let you hurt yourself while you don't remember--” when Jason said,

“Dick. I want to talk to Dick. Please. Please, just call him.”

Bruce finished up strapping him down, but had stopped talking. He considered what Jason was saying, and let out a sigh. If Jason wanted to talk to Dick, that was a good thing—it could mean a memory. “All right. I'll try.”

He dialed from where he was, an automatic one that linked to Dick's new phone.

“Hello?” came the reply.

“Dick, it's--” Bruce started, but there was an abrupt dial tone.

“Please try again,” Jason said, voice laced with desperation, as much as he was obviously trying not to show it.

Bruce decided to indulge him, even if he felt it wouldn't help much. He rang again.

“Bruce. Is Alfred dead or dying?” Dick's voice was flat, was very much angry at being called again.

Rather than giving him a chance to hang up, Bruce responded, “It's Jason.”

“Thanks for letting me know he's dead—oh wait, that happened a while ago, didn't it?” Dick practically snarled, and Jason looked a bit fearful at the tone, the sound evident through the speaker system.

“Dick--”

Dial tone.

Bruce sighed. “We'll get him back. He just needs time to cool off.”

Jason looked rather distraught, which was indeed a good sign, Bruce's opinion. He gave a feeble pull against the restraints, but stopped. “Please, please, call him again.”

“He needs time. He's very angry right now--”

“I know. I know, and that's why you need to talk to him, I talked to him before I came to you--”

“He knew you were alive and didn't tell me?” Bruce wasn't sure whether to be hurt or angry. And that Dick would keep up this pretense, less an act of omission than before, when he called...

He could not trust Dick, apparently.

“I'm not Jason, and Dick knows that—I'm Timothy Jackson Drake, not Jason. He'll tell you, he met me--”

Bruce let out a sort of disgusted huff that quieted Jason. He felt anger towards Dick that he would keep Jason from him, would go along with his dissociative fugue. Maybe he'd been attempting a more gentle approach, but that was the wrong approach—Jason could have slipped away, or gotten himself hurt, even killed again.

“It's going to be okay, Jason,” Bruce said quietly. “I'm going to help you. And Dick's not going to interfere with that.”

Jason's mouth pinched together, and he looked like he might start crying again. But he was silent for now—and he and Dick had been close, but not that close. He would be all right.

He would be all right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah. Stuck at the doctor's office with no internet, so...wrote chapters for like, three things, I believe. This one included! I would have liked to update some of the others, but there was too much to remember and no way to access it. Plus, this one's shitloads of fun. :D
> 
> Hope you like it! And poor, poor Tim. He might even come to believe he *is* Jason.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred finds out about Tim.

Jason was not doing as well as Bruce had hoped.

He kept taking deep breaths through his nose that indicated he was crying, but trying so very hard to hide it. He kept moving in the bed, testing and retesting the restraints.

This was all while Bruce had told him to hold still while he scanned his brain, just to check if there was anything wrong with it—a serious brain injury could also account for his confusion, though a fugue was more likely, as he would probably—maybe, know he was amnesiac. 

“Please,” finally came Jason's quiet voice, “Please, Bruce, I'm scared. I want to go home. Please, you can talk to my parents, they'll tell you that I've been with them since birth. I'm their child, not yours.”

Bruce steadily ignored the plea, saying instead, in a kind voice, “Please hold your head still, Jason. I don't want to have to expose you to any more radiation than I have to.”

Jason's lip seemed to wobble, and he took in another sharp breath. It was hard to watch, because Bruce wanted to comfort him, and it reminded him of much younger Jason, both frightened and angry, or angry because he was frightened--that lip wobble was _exactly_ the same. 

It only supported that this was Jason. His memories might have changed, but his muscle memory wasn't really gone.

“Bruce, you saw Jason die, didn't you? No one could come back from that—someone had to have--”

“Jason. No talking.” Bruce wanted to punch himself. He was too brusque there, and that was not what Jason needed—he was scared enough. He put a gentle hand on Jason's upper arm, and said, “Please don't talk. We can talk after the scan.”

Jason kept his mouth shut, though his eyes seemed somewhat watery.

The scan was done. Bruce put away the machinery, and looked at the results.

Nothing seemed out of place, no signs of injury. That was good, he supposed. He could handle something psychological himself—a severe head injury might require surgical intervention, and he certainly didn't have the ability.

“Please, Bruce, you have to let me go,” Jason was saying, “Think about this logically. Maybe someone took Jason's body, and you're just projecting him onto me—it's a coincidence, a big one, sure, but there's no way--”

“Jason,” Bruce said firmly, “If we're going to help you heal, the first thing you have to accept is that you're here now. I know it's hard to accept that everything you thought was true is not, and I won't try to make you do that now, but you're going to have to eventually.”

Jason looked like he was biting back a scream. His voice still came out almost as a whimper. “Bruce, _I'm not Jason._ There's nothing I need to accept except that you've obviously been driven mad by grief!”

There was the Jason he knew. Bruce smiled despite himself, which made Jason seem to flinch back.

“It's okay, Jason,” he promised, wondering briefly if he should call him Tim to lessen the shock, but deciding against it. “It's okay. You're safe here.”

Jason's lips seemed to twitch, then press tightly together. He didn't say anything for several minutes, and Bruce realized he was giving him the silent treatment now.

Well, silence was easy to work in, at least—and screaming was probably a worse sign.

He set to work, researching what could have brought Jason back to life, quickly absorbed—though not so absorbed that he didn't glance back every so often to the boy strapped to the table, to make sure he was still there and all right.

It was about an hour into his research that Alfred had shown up—and he'd mostly known that because there was the shattering of dishes.

Alfred's eyes were wide, and he seemed to almost stagger for a few steps towards Jason, before regaining control and merely walking with shock on his face. He looked down at the boy, and said, “Master Bruce, what is happening here?”

“Mr. Pennyworth! You have to tell him, I'm not Jason, please--” Jason immediately started on spotting Alfred.

“You're allowed to call him Alfred, Jason,” Bruce said, and he turned to Alfred, who was staring at him with a hard-to-read expression. “I know, it's hard to believe, but it is Jason. Everything matches up—he's in a fugue. It seems likely to me that Ra's al Ghul, or a technology from a sort of other-dimensional planet--”

“Stop it, I'm not Jason!” Jason shouted, renewed energy as he pulled at the restraints. “My name is Timothy Jackson Drake, I live with my parents on--”

“Jason, please calm down,” Bruce said, coming over from his seat. He put a hand on Jason's shoulder, intending to calm him, but that only made Jason give a sharp jerk, a sort of small beginning of a wail of distress that he sharply cut off.

Alfred was still staring. He was obviously thinking, but Bruce wasn't sure he liked the look in the old man's eyes.

“He...he does indeed _look_ like Jason, Master Bruce, but... I don't know that he is Jason.”

“Of course he is. Alfred, Jason's body is gone from his grave—and here he is. I was a bit skeptical at first, but the tests match up, and he seems to be in a fugue. I think I can jog his memory.”

Alfred was staring still, as if trying to figure out what to do.

Jason's eyes had watered up again, and Bruce might have to put an IV in him if he couldn't trust him to not run away; he didn't want him to dehydrate. The boy practically whimpered, “Please, please, I have to go home, I'm not Jason, I have parents that are worried about me!”

It hurt, to an extent, seeing him like this, so confused and upset. He was pretty sure Alfred was thinking something similar, as the old man pulled out a handkerchief and gently wiped Jason's face.

“There, there. We'll figure this out,” Alfred promised. His gaze turned back to Bruce, and it was something between pain and sternness. “Master Bruce, can you say, beyond even the slightest doubt, that this is Jason? Can you be absolutely certain that this is not some poor boy who looks like Jason, or a clone, or something of the sort?”

“Yes,” Bruce insisted. “I've run every test. His scars are gone, but that seems to be a result of whatever brought him back to life—an extreme healing of sorts.”

His eyes flicked over to Jason. “I know he's Jason. There's nothing that can change my mind.”

Jason freaked out at that point, screaming over and over that he wasn't Jason and thrashing as much as the straps allowed, tears streaming down his face. Alfred seemed very upset at this, trying to calm Jason down more traditionally—Bruce had a feeling that wouldn't work.

He'd already injected him by the time Alfred looked over—something low-grade, just enough to calm him, not knock him out. He could see the disapproving frown on Alfred's face as Jason's energy left him, instead reduced to quiet sniffling and whispered, “I'm...I'm not Jason...I'm not...”

Bruce frowned too, but it was more of a pained one. “He'll come back. He'll remember,” he assured Alfred. “He'll understand why I did this.”

Alfred didn't say anything.

Bruce gently brushed Jason's hair back, and said to Alfred, “Don't tell anyone. I don't know how they'll react, and I don't want Jason traumatized any more than—than he is, or has to be.”

Jason gave a little moan, weakly trying to move his arms and only succeeding in curling his fingers slowly.

Alfred hesitated, then nodded. His eyes were not on Bruce. “For now, Master Bruce. For now.”

All he had to do was figure out the thing that would reawaken Jason's memories. It may be more than one thing, a series of things staggered over months—or it may be as simple as putting a key in a lock.

He would find out. He would bring back Jason, _his_ Jason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you like it. Alfred is hoping to alert someone, to get Tim out, but he also is not certain and he doesn't want to upset Bruce's delicate state, frankly. He'll do his best to keep Tim safe, that's for sure.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim seems to accept that he is Jason--or not.

Jason was having a very hard time adjusting. Bruce had hoped he would have some sort of inkling, some intuitive thing that would make him at least vaguely recognize that he was indeed Jason Todd and Bruce was his father, but Jason had been so severely traumatized he remember absolutely nothing—so far.

But he knew a lot about them—just from a clinical distance. He knew who Dick and Alfred were, and who Bruce himself was. He just didn't know who he was to them, and this gave Bruce hope.

If he had those facts in his head, he clearly had the rest. It was just a matter of easing him into it.

By the time the sedative had worn off, Jason wasn't fighting his restraints. He just watched Bruce, green eyes slightly misted. It was like he was trying to figure it out, like he thought Bruce was a madman—while also having feelings he didn't understand.

But he would understand.

“If I unstrap you, are you going to run?” Bruce asked, coming over to the quiet Jason.

Jason didn't even consider this, saying, “No, I won't run.”

Jason always was sort of impulsive, given to quick decisions. This lightened the load on Bruce's heart just a bit. He unstrapped him, and watched cautiously as Jason slowly sat up. The boy rubbed his wrists, though they weren't hurt, given the straps were made not to chafe, and he touched the point where the needle had pierced his neck. He looked somewhat dully around the cave. “So,” he said rather flatly, “This is where the magic happens.”

Almost something Jason would say. Almost. Close enough for Bruce. “You could say that,” Bruce responded. He offered Jason a hand down from the bed.

He saw the instant fear in Jason's eyes, the way he looked at it like it was a viper. But then, his small, soft hand grasped it, determination in his face.

Bruce smiled at Jason—something he felt like he hadn't done enough before. “Are you hungry?”

“Starving,” Jason responded, still in a fairly flat tone. His eyes still flicked about the cave, taking in every inch. Like he was remembering.

Bruce smiled again—he couldn't possibly make up for not smiling enough at the son he got killed. Even if he was back in one piece. He hadn't let go of Jason's hand yet, and he could feel Jason's hand twitch as he clearly wanted to pull free. So he let it go—he didn't want to frighten him.

Jason held his hand close to himself, not quite cradling it to his chest or anything, but a subtly protective look. He tried to abandon this posture, pasting a sort of smile on his face. “So. Where do we eat?”

Bruce wasn't sure he liked the look, but it was better than screaming and trying to get away. He said, “Upstairs. Come with me.”

Jason followed obediently up the stone steps, not once slipping or stumbling.

Alfred had made an early breakfast at that point. He looked tired, a little gray, but he offered a warm smile to Jason. An everything-will-be-all-right smile. He handed a plate of eggs and toast to each of them, saying, “Enjoy your breakfast.”

Jason had stiffened a little, and Bruce thought for a moment he would throw himself at Alfred and beg him to call the police or his parents. But then he just bit into the toast, saying, “This is delicious. You should be proud.”

Still that flat tone.

And a look from Alfred that said he was unsure. Very unsure.

Bruce cleared his throat, saying, “Jason. Your room is untouched since your...departure. Alfred will clean it up and get it ready for you—are you tired?”

“I did a lot of sleeping already,” Jason said, and Bruce could see a hard swallow, before he continued, “I'm good.”

He felt bad, but at least Jason was starting to remember. At least he had calmed down. It was less damage than him wandering Gotham and potentially remembering in a dangerous situation. It was less damage than him being separated from his father forever, and never dealing with his trauma.

Never knowing who he truly was.

Bruce reached over and carefully patted Jason's head. “It's okay if you need to sleep. Don't push yourself.”

“I won't. I'm really not tired,” Jason insisted, stabbing the egg yolk and watching it bleed all over his plate. “I'm not tired at all.”

Bruce nodded slowly. It was a little different than Jason, but then, he wasn't entirely out of the fugue. Let him heal at his own pace, Bruce resolved. He would be there for him every step of the way.

He watched Jason poke at his toast, eyes flicking around the dining room. Then, finally, Jason said, “I would like to visit my old room, though. I mean, if I can remember, right? I...have vague memories. A, um, poster with a guy on it...?”

“Tucker Gregg, Gotham's basketball star.” Bruce smiled. Jason was indeed remembering.

Jason continued, “It was, a...ball or something...was it signed?”

“Well, it wasn't signed per se, just a picture scribbled on it, but yes, you have a basketball from Dick. He thought a smiley face would be funny,” Bruce said, hope in his heart.

“That phone...I forget what color...” Jason said, brows creased.

“You built it yourself. It's red,” Bruce said, a bit proudly.

“And that, um, the pillow or plush toy or...?” Jason continued, face screwed up in concentration.

Bruce felt a rush of relief. “Zeppi. Your teddy bear. You brought him with you when you came here—one of your only wordly possessions.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I remember Zeppi,” Jason said, nodding. “Uh, can I go with Alfred? You have to be exhausted after all you did to save me. I mean, you're only a man, right?”

Bruce nodded, smiling. He was relieved...even as an unpleasant worry niggled at the back of his mind. Something wasn't right, but...Jason was _remembering_. How could it be wrong?

Alfred cleared the dishes, and said, “Young Master Jason, are you ready to go?”

Jason slowly got to his feet, and nodded. “Yeah—I might take a nap, not sure, if that's okay? I mean--”

“That's absolutely allowed, Master Jason,” Alfred said warmly, and led Jason off to his room.

They disappeared down the hallway, and Bruce was left alone with his thoughts. He was going over the way Jason had remembered, and was comparing it to amnesiacs and such he'd met.

Did they describe in such... _vague_ terms? 

His memory was saying no, even as his mind wanted to say yes. Even as he wanted to believe that Jason was truly remembering. 

And then he remembered where he'd seen such a way of 'knowing' something before—psychics. Fake psychics. Jason wasn't remembering at all—he was fishing.

And undoubtedly for the phone, not the rest.

Bruce was up on his feet in an instant, racing towards the room. He didn't know who precisely Jason would call, but he knew it would not be good.

Alfred was not in the room, but Jason was, phone cradled to his ear. “Please, you _have_ to come, he's holding me hostage and he thinks _I'm_ Jason, please, Dick--”

Bruce had pulled the cord out of the wall before he even thought much about it. He saw Jason look up at him in horror, mouth moving open and closed. “It's not—this isn't what it looks like, you misheard--!”

“Jason. I am trying to help you. Do not lie to me,” Bruce said, narrowly reigning in his temper. It wasn't Jason's fault, as angry as he was about the perceived progress being a ruse. Jason was a smart kid; he should have expected it.

Jason looked like he was going to cry again, but he said, voice wavering, “Dick is going to come, and he's going to set this right. He'll tell you, he knows I'm Tim--”

“You are not Tim!” Bruce practically roared, sending Jason skittering back towards the bed, fear on his face.

Bruce cursed himself for losing his temper. He _had_ to do better, or Jason would never recover. “I'm sorry, Jason. It's...hard, when someone you care about doesn't know you anymore. I won't shout at you again. Just...don't try to call anyone again.”

Jason was still pressed up against the bed, but he nodded mutely, like he didn't trust himself to speak.

Bruce cursed his anger. Jason needed gentle handling, not shouting. He couldn't help him get better by being a brute towards him. He crossed the space, and despite Jason flinching back, turning away and screwing his eyes shut, he gave him a hug. “It's okay. It's okay, Jason. I'm going to take care of you—no one will ever hurt you again.”

He thought he heard a small sob, but this time, Jason was doing his best to keep it hidden. He stroked his head anyways, seeming to recall Jason responding positively to similar things before.

Jason didn't scream and cry this time.

He was making progress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Tim is trying hard to think his way out of the situation, as Tims do. He is young and not as experienced as he is after he becomes Robin, but he's doing okay.
> 
> And Bruce is definitely unbalanced at this point--but has no idea.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce decides to play therapist--and Dick arrives on the scene.

Jason was adjusting still, Bruce reminded himself, as Jason picked listlessly at his broccoli.

“Broccoli's one of your favorites,” Bruce said, a bit concerned. “You were very excited to have as much fruit and vegetables to eat as you wanted when I first took you in.” He glanced towards the untouched cup of milk. “As well as fresh milk whenever you wanted.”

Jason looked weakly to the milk, putting a piece of broccoli (cooked, soft, perfect for someone recovering) in his mouth as if he was eating cardboard. “Yeah. I guess I changed a bit.”

“Milk is healthy for you. You should drink it,” Bruce said, eating his own food.

It was lunch—a bit early, but he knew food usually cheered Jason up a bit. The boy enjoyed food a lot—eating it, cooking it, figuring it out—it was all magical to Jason. He still remembered the excellent pie that Jason had baked, with Alfred, for Thanksgiving. It was a sort of mash of berries, and Jason had been beaming--

He hadn't really acknowledged it. Not enough. Not more than a nod, an implied 'good job.' But maybe Jason hadn't known, hadn't realized that he approved.

Jason's mouth was pinched at the moment. “We just had breakfast two hours ago...”

“Two hours is nothing to you,” Bruce assured him, “and it was a light breakfast. You're recovering. Go ahead, eat.”

Bruce had been doing research on dissociative fugues. There were certainly ways to get a person out of them—and they typically could last from only a few days to months. But he would get Jason back—that was the good news.

And the sooner he could heal, the sooner he would get him back, all of him.

Jason was sipping milk in tiny increments when Bruce spoke.

“Jason. We need to talk about what happened to you.”

Jason swallowed, and said, carefully, “There's nothing to talk about. Bruce, you need to think about--”

“No. You need to talk about it. I'll start, then you can...jump in, I suppose.” Bruce wasn't good at this, but he couldn't call in a psychotherapist or something—they might not believe him. They might take Jason away forever. So he'd have to do the best he could. “When you ran away to see your mother, you ran away from me. You thought she loved you. She didn't, she was luring you to be beaten and then blown up by The Joker--”

“Stop,” Jason said, milk glass clenched in his hands.

Bruce was clearly getting through. “Which was what happened. She was trapped in the warehouse too, and you tried to save her—you failed. You both died. I found your body in the rubble.”

Jason's head ducked down, as he murmured, “No, that's not true.”

“It's what happened, Jason. And...I'm sorry. I should have...done better. You deserved more from me, and it won't ever happen again—you won't be alone ever again.”

He thought he saw a shudder go through Jason. He didn't know whether to chalk it up to remembering, being sick, or something else. Perhaps he was afraid of Bruce—but that didn't make much sense. No, there was no reason to be frightened. Bruce was his father—he seemed to recall that, to an extent. He knew things he shouldn't know about him and Dick.

Of course he remembered, even if he didn't realize.

“Your turn to talk. Tell me anything you remember about your resurrection.”

Jason's fingernails scratched at the glass, and he didn't look at Bruce. He seemed to take a while to answer, but Bruce was patient. No one was leaving this table until they had this talk. “I...” Jason faltered a little. He still wouldn't look at Bruce. “I wasn't resurrected. I'm not Jason, Bruce, you have to know I'm not—”

“Jason.” Bruce said it sternly, cutting him off. “Try to remember. Make an honest attempt.”

“I can't remember it if it's not there!” Jason said shrilly, and he slammed the cup down, sloshing milk everywhere. “I don't even like milk, you know that? I don't! I'm not Jason, I hate veggies and fruit, and I didn't come back from the dead, _I'm not Jason!_ ”

Bruce restrained his anger in time. He didn't want to scare Jason. Obviously, talking about it wasn't working if Jason couldn't even access his most basic memories.

So, Bruce decided it was on to plan two—he'd test it out, see if he should go back to trying to discuss it, but he wanted it to work, and it was painful seeing Jason not remembering a bit, consciously, of his previous life. He had to get him better.

“Jason. A common way of combating fugue is to train yourself out of destructive thoughts. So that's what we're going to do,” Bruce said solemnly.

Jason looked near hyperventilating. “No, no, don't you think you should have a therapist doing this, if it was true? You can't—that's beyond what you--”

“Destructive thought number one: that you can't trust me,” Bruce said, writing this down in his notebook (he'd brought it with him. It was easier than bring a computer, because Jason might realize what he was doing then). “We're going to need to work past that.”

“Of course I don't trust you, you're crazy--”

“Destructive thought number two: that everyone else is crazy,” Bruce said, putting this down as well.

“Not everyone, just you! I'm not Jason--”

“Destructive thought number three: that you're not really you.”

Jason seemed to curl in on himself, refusing to say anything else.

Bruce sighed. “We'll start with those three. Get them out of your head. It'll help you remember.”

Jason was biting down on his lip, and Bruce realized there was a small bead of blood there—he seized Jason's chin, a bit more harshly than intended, and said,

“Stop that—that's self-destructive!”

Jason let out a weird sort of hiccup-laugh, but choked it down. “Yeah. Yeah, that's self-destructive.”

There was something off about the way he said it, almost through Bruce's fingers, but Bruce let it go. It was all right. Jason would be fine.

That was about when there was the sound of the door opening, and Jason looked towards the sound in obvious, but still tentative, hopeful, relief. “Thank god,” he heard him mutter under his breath.

Bruce was already moving between Jason and the intruder, but the footfalls were undeniably Dick. He frowned, keeping between them anyway, even as Dick came into the dining room.

“Bruce,” he said, a bit curtly, and he tried to look around him.

Bruce blocked him, but Jason apparently had other ideas—he moved where Dick could see him, relieved words bursting out of him.

“Thank god, thank god, you have to tell him I'm not Jason!”

Dick moved towards Jason, but Bruce blocked him—not an attack, but a warning. One finger on Jason, and he would lose it.

Dick sighed, assuring Jason, “It's okay, Tim. I'll handle this. You're okay.”

“He's not Tim—stop confusing him!” Bruce practically growled, and the flinching from Jason was just something he could sense without seeing him. Damn Dick—he had no idea what was going on, clearly, or at least a false perspective on things.

“Bruce,” Dick said, like he was talking to a crazy person, “That kid is Timothy Jackson Drake. He is not Jason, even if the resemblance is uncanny--”

“He's in a fugue! If you just leave well enough alone, he'll come out of it!” Bruce was almost eager to prove this to Dick, saying, “I know it's him. I've run every test—his DNA matches. 100%. Everything checks out.”

“Bruce, you _buried_ Jason--”

“I did. That's true. But his coffin is empty now—he's been brought back to life. You've seen heroes come back to life, Dick—Jason is one of them now. You know it's perfectly possible, and I will find out how, but what's more important is getting him back to himself,” Bruce said, keeping his tone calm as possible.

“I can't go back because I'm not Jason! Please, Dick, you have to do something!”

Jason was begging almost like he knew Dick. Well, that was a good sign.

Dick was frowning deeply at Bruce. “I really...I don't think this is Jason, Bruce, and even if it is, this is highly traumatic for him.”

Bruce could feel his own face turn ugly, as he snapped, “Oh, you care now? You care now, do you? Where were you when he was suffering alone? You certainly didn't try to help him as a _brother_ \--why pretend you ever cared about him now? It's just to thwart me. You hold such a grudge, you can't stand it!”

“Whoa, hold on, Bruce—you need to—take deep breaths, okay? I'm not trying to thwart you, it's just that he's _not Jason_ \--”

The crack sound made Jason gasp.

Dick crumpled to the floor—temporarily unconscious, not dead. Bruce would have to keep him contained for now—he couldn't risk Jason, and it wasn't like he was truly going to hurt Dick.

He picked him up easily, nodding to Jason. “Follow me.”

Jason was pale and trembling, and he followed him. He was breathing fast, kind of gasping.

But it was all right. Bruce would protect him—from everyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas! Enjoy! :D


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get a bit more hairy, and there's nothing Dick can do to stop it.

Jason had never been close with Dick. They'd been slightly at odds at times, as Bruce recalled, and Jason had often felt inadequate compared to Dick--Bruce's fault. He'd caused that.

But Dick certainly hadn't helped it, in his opinion.

Now, however, the glass containment unit (a design made to hold some of the strongest heroes around) was where he was keeping Dick--and Jason was standing by it, a stricken look on his face as he pressed his hand against the glass.

Dick would be conscious shortly.

But Bruce took this as a good sign--not only did Jason remember Dick, but he was feeling wistful for the relationship they'd never had. For more than they'd had. And when Dick realized that this really _was_ Jason, maybe they could be close.

It would help heal Jason. Jason would feel more that he belonged and not go chasing after other sources of family and love--such as the Drakes.

Who he had cursorily researched.

They had some arrests on their records. Domestic disturbances, drunk driving, a few others that indicated they weren't the wholesome people they should be if they were taking care of Jason. 

They hadn't been convicted, of course, but it was _Gotham_ , that didn't prove they didn't do it.

He opened up family records.

He shook his head, almost smiling to himself as he saw the shoddy work someone had taken to make it look like Jason had been there the whole time, as Timothy Jackson Drake. Adopted as a baby, to make DNA mismatch make sense. Birth records sealed, 'at request of birth mother.'

He chuckled at that, the obvious ploy at hiding Jason's identity. It was ridiculous, frankly, and it solidified his case for Jason being himself.

The slide of a hand against glass alerted him to Jason looking at him with fear, and of course, _what was he thinking?_

_The Joker_ had murdered Jason, he should not laugh for seemingly no reason around him.

He straightened out his face. "It's all right, Jason. The falsified records are just laughably bad."

"But they're not falsified," Jason said weakly, almost whispering it. Like he wasn't certain anymore.

And that was progress, clearly. Jason was starting to remember who he was--to identify the cracks in the story he'd been forced to believe was true. He'd always been smart--Bruce should have praised him more for that.

There was a groan, and Dick shakily got to his hands and knees. He seemed a little dazed at first, but his eyes quickly honed in on Bruce, as he said, almost disbelievingly, "You knocked me out."

"I did," Bruce confirmed. There was no reason to lie to Dick.

How to convince him of the truth, however, that was an entirely different matter. He was thinking over it when he heard Dick speak again.

"Bruce, you know I'd never lie to you, right? You know that I don't do that," Dick was saying slowly, but there was that telltale clench of his shoulders--he was fighting not to be angry. Which was unsurprising, given that Bruce had knocked him out--he tended to get mad about that.

"You have. You lied about Jason."

He could hear Dick's teeth audibly grind--a small sound, one he quickly stopped, but he tried again. "I didn't lie. I met him before he came to you, yes--but he is _Tim_ , not Jason, and I didn't tell you because of that. Not because I was hiding him--"

"You were. You were hiding him, I know you too well for you to lie to me, Dick," Bruce said sharply.

Dick took a deep breath through his nose. "Bruce...he was trying to convince me to come back. To be Robin again. Do you know why?" 

Dick didn't give him a chance to answer. "Because he could see you've become unhinged. Most of Gotham can tell, actually. Bruce, you're not okay in the head, okay?"

It was an admirable tactic--an excellent way to try to cover his tracks, his ulterior motives. Cast the blame on the target, make them believe it wasn't real--psychological manipulation 101.

Bruce just shook his head. Who did Dick think he was dealing with? "Please. As if I've never heard that tactic before. I taught you that."

" _It's not a goddamn tactic!_ " Dick shouted at him, losing his cool entirely. "Fucking hell, do you even get what you're doing to this poor kid?!"

And Jason was cringing, just a bit, close to Dick--or at least, close to the part of the glass that Dick was close to. Like he expected him to somehow protect him. But that was preposterous--Dick had never protected Jason in his previous life, and there was little to protect him from that Bruce couldn't protect him from better.

"Jason. Come over here. We're done talking with Dick."

"No, goddamnit, Bruce, I--"

The mute function effectively silenced Dick, who was clearly ranting, but entirely soundlessly to them.

Jason cringed back harder, even though there was literally nothing that Dick could do. The man was behind glass--but then, Jason had always had a streak of emotional thinking. More than a streak.

It was what had probably led to his death. They would work that out later, when he was better.

"Jason. I said, come over here."

Bruce was trying not to be impatient. He really was. But Jason was being very difficult. He shouldn't be expected to put up with it indefinitely, he thought--that whole 'knock his memories back into his head' thing in cartoons and such had an element of truth to it.

Probably. 

Jason was shaking his head, though, and started to cry. "Please...please, I want to go home. Please, I'm not--"

Bruce rose from his seat, and marched towards Jason. "Destructive thought number three, Jason. What is it?"

Jason looked bewildered, like a scared animal as he took steps back from Bruce's approach.

Bruce didn't like seeing him cry, but sometimes you had to be tough with your kids. You couldn't namby-pamby around, after all--that would solve nothing. Jason had to be shown the truth with a firm hand, or he probably wouldn't learn it at all--he was rather hard-headed.

"Destructive thought number three: That you're not really you. This is your home, Jason. You don't have any other home."

Jason hiccupped, clearly trying to quell the tears. His eyes darted to the glass containment unit, and Bruce's slight glance told him Dick was glaring at him murderously.

Dick might be a touch unhinged--which would definitely explain his claims. Perhaps the whole separation thing had gone more poorly than Bruce had thought. Or even that something had happened when Dick had left--perhaps even been the thing that truly caused the breakdown of their partnership.

Jason had nowhere to back away to anymore. He was trapped between the glass and Bruce.

Now he would have to listen to reason.

"Jason, repeat it back to me: I am Jason Todd. I have never been anyone else."

Jason was almost hyperventilating again--he hadn't really done that before. His palms were pressed flat against the glass, as if he could melt through it if he tried hard enough. He shut his eyes tightly--like the reflex to almost always look at an opponent wasn't there anymore. 

Closing your eyes in a fight was an instinct--but a potentially deadly one. A sort of chilly feeling leapt in Bruce's chest, and he seized Jason, snapping, "You look at me!"

He couldn't have him die again.

Jason's eyes were on him, and he seemed to make a decision. "I...I am Jason..."

He choked on the words, but it was a start. Bruce could let it go, as long as Jason was trying. He could slightly hear the thump of Dick punching the glass, a very small sound. Dick was glaring at him, a lot of anger on his face.

He could hear them, after all. Bruce hadn't turned off the sound his way.

And he was unhinged, perhaps jealous or somesuch--though the kind of deep-seated jealousy necessary to hide Jason from him...? Bruce wasn't certain he wanted to dwell on it, with as much as he had to do with Jason.

He hugged his son, who trembled in his arms. "Good job, Jason. You're doing a good job. I know this is hard, but it's the only way to get better."

Positive reinforcement. Praise. It was what Jason needed, after all.

And Jason didn't say anything.

Maybe that was a good sign. Bruce wasn't certain.

What he was certain on, though: he was going to save Jason. The way he hadn't before. And he was going to do it whether or not Dick wanted him to stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah. Kinda forgot about this one! Even though I fucking love it.
> 
> Also, I am sick right now (it's just one motherfucking thing after another lately) and writing to help not throw up. Yay!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somehow, things get worse for both Tim and Dick. An unstable mind is an unpredictable thing.

Jason was adjusting poorly, Bruce thought. The thing with Dick must have frightened him.

Then again, anyone would feel ill at ease with Dick sitting there glaring murder, even if it wasn’t directly at them. Bruce said, loudly enough for Dick to hear it very clearly, “Stop that. You’re scaring him.”

The look on Dick’s face was incredulous. He gestured towards Jason, who was still huddled against the glass and clutching the carton of milk Bruce had given him, and started gesticulating wildly. He seemed to be ranting.

“I can’t hear you,” Bruce pointed out.

Dick gestured angrily towards the microphone in the cell—it wasn’t visible, but of course, he knew where it was.

Bruce sighed. He would hear from Dick about his crazy theories. Just give him a chance—the chance Dick wouldn’t give him to reconcile with Jason and protect him. 

He was the better man here, for certain.

He flicked the switch, and Dick’s words came through.

“Bruce, I am not the one scaring him! _You_ are scaring him, you knocked me out, locked me up, you’re keeping him against his will and using psychological torture—“

“Therapy,” Bruce countered, and continued, “I wouldn’t have had to do that if you hadn’t made me, Dick.”

He could see Jason huddle closer to the glass, closer to where Dick was. It was a little unsettling. Didn’t make complete sense.

The thought occurred, based on what he’d read and the way Jason was staring off and not looking at either of them, that he was having a dissociative episode. He left the conversation with Dick, where his former ward was still angrily ranting, and walked over to Jason.

“Jason. Jason, look at me.”

Jason didn’t respond for a moment, and dissociation was dangerous, left one open to any kind of attack, so Bruce grabbed his face, cheeks between his thumb and forefinger, and turned it towards him. “Jason.”

Jason let out a small, confused noise.

Definitely dissociating.

“Please stay present,” Bruce said, forgetting how precisely to deal with dissociative episodes, but he knew what to do basically. “Look at me.”

Jason didn’t, his eyes on somewhere vaguely near Bruce’s left shoulder.

“I said look at me!”

The raised voice had Jason’s eyes snapping to him, a sort of wide-eyed look, an alert look, and Bruce could feel the boy’s teeth pressing together—or trying to, anyway, his grip was in the way.

But he was definitely looking at him, definitely present. That was good.

“Good. Now, we have to go upstairs.”

Jason tried to twist away, press against the glass again like it was a source of protection. Bruce tightened his grip on Jason’s face, forcing him to face him as his eyes seemed to water and he let out a noise that wasn’t quite a word.

“Destructive Thought Number One: that you can’t trust me,” Bruce said.

It was about then that he registered Dick’s cursing, his furious demands that he leave ‘Tim’ alone. Leave it to Dick to cause a disruption like that. Didn’t he realize dramatics were only going to make this worse for Jason?

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. Maybe that was exactly his intent.

He let go of Jason and moved to give Dick a death glare. “I don’t know why you’re acting this way. But rest assured, I will force you to stop if I have to. Jason needs a chance to heal, and you need to stop this petty game.”

Dick’s chest heaved with anger, but he seemed to be trying to sound rational, to convince Bruce that he wasn’t trying to destroy his only opportunity to get his son back. “Bruce, I am not being petty. I just can’t let you hurt…” his eyes flicked over to Jason, “Jason. I can’t let you hurt him. You’re scaring him.” He licked his lips. “Maybe I am too. I’m sorry. Just let me out, and I will do better.”

Bruce could spot lies from a mile away. “Nice try. Please be quiet, we have things to do upstairs and I would rather he is not upset by someone who should care about his wellbeing before we get to work.”

He thought he’d said it rather scathingly and Dick would look guilty. Instead, he looked anguished. His eyes went to Jason again, and the boy was pressed against the glass still, hands clenching the milk carton but it still wasn’t open.

His green eyes were on Dick.

It made a strange feeling rise in Bruce’s chest. Why in hell’s name would Jason be looking at Dick like that? Almost adoring, almost pleading, like…like Dick was something more. 

Like he was amazing and everything that Jason had ever wanted to be near and he was the savior…

It hit Bruce like a thunderclap. _Something_ had happened between these two. Something probably horrible.

Maybe horrible enough to make Jason dissociate like this.

Anger bubbled in his chest like a boiling over pot. “What,” he growled at Dick, “Did you do to Jason when you found him?”

The horror crossed Jason’s face before it crossed Dick’s, the boy going pale and looking at Bruce with the sort of gaping fear that a threat of death should provoke. His mouth was opening and closing, trying to explain, maybe protect Dick, as if he was the one who needed protected here.

Dick’s face was confused for a moment, before a sort of disgust went over it. “Nothing! What are you trying to say? I would never hurt Jason! Listen to yourself, you know I wouldn’t!”

Lies. He’d known Dick well enough to pick up on his tells—there was a clear deception going on here. Obviously, he wouldn’t have thought he’d do this, but perhaps he had been driven a little unstable by both jealousy and Jason’s death. Mostly jealousy, it seemed.

A fury ignited in Bruce’s chest, and he picked up Jason bodily, ignoring the boy’s small shriek of fear at the sudden movement and manhandling. It didn’t matter if he hurt or scared him a little right now—he had to get him away from Dick.

“Bruce! _Bruce!_ Goddamnit, put him down, get—“

Bruce flicked off the sound. He could feel Jason stiff yet trembling in his arms, unwilling to move at all as he seemed a bit curled in on himself like a pill bug. His face was one of shock, and he was starting to stare off into space again as Bruce got him up the stairs.

He settled him quickly into an armchair, threw an afghan over him, and eased the leaking carton of milk from his fist. “Look at me. Jason, look at me, stay in the present.”

Jason’s eyes were on him. He swallowed audibly, but didn’t say a word.

There was some sort of fear in his eyes. Bruce wasn’t certain if it was of him or Dick.

Probably Dick. Probably a confusion from whatever Dick did. He would have to find out what Dick did, but perhaps after they got back some of Jason’s other memories, less painful memories.

He didn’t want to torture the boy, after all.

“Whatever happened,” Bruce said, as gently as possible, as he put a hand on the side of Jason’s face, down on one knee in front of him so as not to scare him, “it’s okay. I’m going to protect you. No one’s going to hurt you again. I promise.”

And Jason seemed to be fighting back tears. But he stayed huddled under the afghan.

And then came the murmured, “Dick didn’t hurt me, I swear…”

He didn’t understand, or maybe didn’t remember. But it clearly had happened. “Jason, I know it’s hard to understand now, but whatever Dick did wasn’t okay. And he won’t get the chance to do it again.”

Jason’s face creased in fear. He might be remembering. His lips seemed to stutter uncertainly as he asked, “Y-You’re…you’re going to lock him up?”

“Yes. Hopefully, that will be all it takes,” Bruce said, assuaging his vengeful side in favor of not scaring Jason.

Jason was staring hard at his own knees, brought up in front of him.

“I’ll have Alfred make you some tea. Hang in there,” Bruce said, patting him on the shoulder.

He thought he heard him sniffling as he left. Some tea would calm his nerves; he had every right to feel upset after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta da! Whew, I haven't updated this one in a while, I am sorry.
> 
> I feel like, this one thing, 'Jason' reappearing, has really led to Bruce's grasp of reality crumbling much further. And he thinks he still sounds completely logical and sane, obviously. You can reason away anything when pesky reality isn't in the way! 
> 
> Poor Tim. Poor Dick.
> 
> And Alfred is going to do *something* next chap!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce tries to determine what Dick did to 'Jason' while Tim frantically tries to convince him nothing happened.
> 
> It doesn't work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING FOR IMPLIED/REFERENCED SEXUAL ABUSE/ASSAULT OF A MINOR

Jason was still not doing well, but Bruce had reasoned this out.

It was like waiting for a fever or a storm to break—it got worse before it got better. They’d push through hell in terms of emotion and psychological pain before it broke and Jason felt much better. Not perfect, but at least knowing who he was and that he was safe with his father.

He had to push him, or Jason would never seek it out. It was easier to leave the wound closed and healed wrong than to open it and heal it properly.

So, Bruce stood over his son, saying, “How are you feeling, Jason?”

Jason’s eyes flickered up to Bruce, a hazy look to them like he was trying to dissociate again. He looked vaguely hopeless.

Or perhaps he was starting to accept it, and this was hard and traumatic but it was worth it. He was coming closer and closer. Of course he was going to look a bit like that; it was a very hard thing to accept.

Bruce repeated his question.

Jason blinked again, that hazy look in them, and he nodded.

Which was not an answer, really. And could be a sign he was dissociating again. So, Bruce leaned in, putting both hands on his shoulders, ignoring the flinch back (though, technically, that was a good sign that he was back in reality), and said firmly, “Jason. Look me in the eyes, and tell me who you are.”

The green eyes met his, and a small murmur of, “I’m Jason Todd,” came back. Almost whispered.

But much better than before. The green eyes were wide, aware, meeting his crystal clear. Looking around his face a little, perhaps recognizing it more fully.

Bruce smiled. Jason deserved that from him, though not too wide, because that was far too reminiscent of the Joker. He rubbed his thumb on one of Jason’s shoulders, starting to say, “Good job.”

But Jason flinched back hard at the movement, the touch, practically ripping out of his hands.

He looked sort of horrified that he’d done it, perhaps remembering that Bruce was not the scary one and it was a memory trigger that made him do that. 

A dark feeling seemed to clamp on Bruce’s heart. What had Dick done? Was it related to this?

And the thought he’d sort of hoped to ignore—had Dick harmed Jason in a sexual way? Jason’s history would certainly make that particularly devastating and confusing. And the way Jason was subconsciously curling away from him, keeping his eyes sharply on the arm of the chair, seemed to support this feeling. This intuition.

“Jason. I need you to tell me what Dick did.”

The look of fear, panic, wasn’t smothered fast enough for Bruce not to see it. “He didn’t do anything. We only talked, and he said he didn’t want to be Robin. That’s it.”

There was obviously something Jason was trying to conceal, to protect.

“Did he touch you?” Bruce asked.

Jason’s face was pure horror before he desperately smothered it, swallowing hard. “No. _No._ You have to believe me, Bruce, he never—would never, ever—“

Bruce turned Jason’s face with his hand, making him look him in the eyes. The fear was palpable, Jason already near tears. Something had gone down, and Jason was making far too many protests for it to be anything else.

“Where did he touch you?” Bruce demanded, a fire starting to grow in his chest. Dick had to know how such a thing would affect Jason, who had lived on the streets, who had been through traumas Dick couldn’t even imagine. But that he would know about—and apparently use in this petty game.

“He _didn’t!_ ” Jason squeaked out, tears already starting to fall, chest shuddering, he was trying so hard to hide it but failing badly, “Please, Bruce, you know Dick, he would never hurt _anyone_ that way, especially not a kid—“

Did he really know that, though? It had been a while, a terrible separation. And Dick had a certain impulsiveness, a certain way his emotions could take over to drive him to do things.

Bruce still wasn’t entirely able to reconcile the child he’d known with a Dick Grayson who would do this. But, they hadn’t been in contact a long time. Who knew what kind of corruption of character might have gone on? Or how in denial and guilty Dick might feel about it?

Not all sexual assaults were done with cold glee. Dick had simply become twisted and couldn’t deal with it. Perhaps he even believed he hadn’t done it.

And had forced Jason into a place where he would lie for him.

Bruce’s gut seemed to boil with anger. “Where?”

Jason started outright sobbing, pleading with him to believe him, that Dick would never, in a million years, do anything like that, he _had_ to believe him—

And Bruce’s thumb, on his lips, quieted him instantly. “Did he touch you here?”

Make it simple. Yes or no. It was probably very hard to talk about for Jason.

He could feel Jason’s lips trembling under his thumb, and Jason very deliberately shook his head no. Seemed almost scared to speak again, until Bruce moved his thumb.

“Bruce, you know Dick would never—he didn’t touch me _anywhere_ , I swear to god—“ Jason let out a frightened huff of air when Bruce put his hand on his neck.

He didn’t ask this time, simply examining for any signs. And even before he found it, Jason was already saying frantically, “That’s not from Dick, it’s from my girlfriend, Ariana—“

A reddish bruise, undeniably a _hickey_ , was on Jason’s neck. He seemed to flinch at Bruce touching it, at the growl at escaped Bruce’s throat before he remembered he needed to restrain it.

He didn’t believe for an instant it was some made up girlfriend.

“Bruce, I swear to god, I have a girlfriend, we’re a little distant right now, but if you look on my phone, there are pictures—“

That was a frantic lie. Jason had never dated, had shied away from such things. And for good reason, especially considering the way he was reacting right now to what Dick had done.

Bruce demanded, cutting him off, “Did he hurt you anywhere else, or do I have to find out myself?”

Jason paled at that, shaking his head, not a frantic shake, but deliberately not one. “I swear I only have a hickey, I’m a, uh, I’m a virgin, and that’s from Ariana and _not Dick_ \--“

He screamed, outright, short but frightened, when Bruce pulled down his collar a bit more, and goddamnit, what did Bruce think he was doing?

That yank, exposing his upper chest, had to be triggering. He would have to leave it alone until he calmed down and stopped crying like that. It wasn’t a terrible area to expose, but it might seem like Bruce was trying to undress and hurt him, and this was _Jason_ , he couldn’t do that to him.

He let go of Jason, who curled tightly into a ball and sobbed quietly into his knees.

Bruce should find a doll for Jason to use. To explain what happened.

In the meantime, he had someone to visit.

He turned sharply on his heel without a word, and headed for the batcave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously, Dick didn't do it, and there are not really a lot of worlds where a Dick Grayson would, frankly, but Bruce is kinda falling down the rabbit hole while convinced he is completely sane.
> 
> Tim is mostly panicked because he can easily see where any admission or suspicion of Dick having hurt him will/can go--Dick will be harmed. Possibly even killed, even if unintentionally on Bruce's part. Tim is generally several steps ahead, even if he is completely out of his area of experience and shit here. He is floundering a bit, given that he isn't trained as Robin at this point.
> 
> Arya I believe was a minor character in the Robin series who was not Tim's girlfriend, but instead a character who was raped by her boyfriend. She tried to get him to have sex with her because she wanted it to not hurt, but he talked her out of it and helped her. I might be spelling her name wrong. :P
> 
> EDIT: I did spell her name wrong, it's Ariana. I have a very bad memory for names. DX
> 
> This Tim is slightly older than old Tim, given that he's Jason's twin, but is indeed still a virgin.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick is going to suffer for the crimes Bruce thinks he's committed. And Alfred is not immune to suspicion either.

Dick should have known better.

Should have known better than to _touch_ Jason. Should have known Bruce would find out and hunt him down.

Even as rage boiled in his veins, though, Bruce remained in control. He couldn’t kill, Batman didn’t kill. He especially couldn’t kill Dick. There was too much there, even if Dick obviously didn’t feel such compunction.

The bastard looked up when Bruce came back down, mouth opening and closing to demand something—then freezing at the look on Bruce’s face.

Damn right he should be afraid.

Bruce flicked on the sound. “You are going to tell me what, precisely, you did to Jason.”

He could handle the details, the horror—Jason deserved that. Deserved not to be alone in this mental agony.

Dick’s brow creased, his eyes darting to read Bruce’s face and posture. “…I didn’t do _anything_ , Bruce. You have to believe me, I never hurt him.”

“You think because it didn’t hurt, physical pain, it makes it all right?” Bruce growled.

Dick stared a moment, like he was trying to figure out what Bruce knew and what he could get away with—and then his eyes widened. Maybe playing at shock and disgust. “You _know_ I would never do anything like—“

“I know you molested him. He all but told me, and the mark on his neck is clear enough proof,” Bruce said coldly, and it was lucky for Dick he was keeping himself under control. Most fathers wouldn’t have this kind of control—comparable anger, though.

Dick’s face alternated from shock to fury. “What the hell did you do to make him say that? Bruce, you are torturing—“

“You’re trying to blame him?” Bruce demanded, “You’re trying to say he’s lying? Because he isn’t—he tried desperately to hide it from me, but what you did was so horrific he couldn’t. Now. Tell me. _What did you do?_ ”

Dick let out a frustrated almost scream, trapped in his lies and the bed he’d made for himself. “Bruce, stop it, I didn’t do anything, you’ve gone insane!”

And that was it. Dick would not admit his guilt, and that made him too dangerous.

Batman did not kill. But he still had to protect Jason—it was really a mercy what he was about to do, compared to what some parents might do or want to do.

The door to the containment cell slid open, and Dick was already on his feet, slightly shaky from the knockout gas still and warily watching him, not darting for the door. Waiting for him to make his move.

He obviously knew he deserved what was coming.

It wasn’t that difficult to get Dick in a hold, something he couldn’t get out of without severe pain, while he shouted and raged and pleaded with the reminders that he was his friend, Bruce didn’t want to do this, please, this is madness and he was going to—

He cut off with a scream as Bruce cracked the bones in his hands, an agonized sob escaping not unlike a sound Jason might have made when Dick harmed him. Bruce continued until his work was done. He kicked Dick to the floor, not because he was cruel, but because he couldn’t risk retaliation.

He was already most of the way out of the door when he turned to look at Dick, and the look of accusation, agony, the tears streaking down his former partner’s face, were what made this so hard—he had always cared about Dick.

That was why he didn’t kill him, despite his clear moral breakdown.

“Good luck touching someone else with that,” Bruce said harshly.

His hands were already purpling, bent unnaturally in more than one place, and Dick looked like he might hyperventilate from the pain, a strangled moan the only sound he could make in response.

Bruce had been thorough. Two metacarpals on each hand, the first thumb phalange on each hand, and a fracture near the base of the wrist on each. Dick wasn’t going to use his hands for a long time.

It had been made difficult by the thrashing and desperate attempts to break free, but Bruce would always be stronger than Dick.

He was the teacher, after all.

He was glad that Jason couldn’t hear the screams. Nor Alfred.

“Bruce…” he heard the wept plea, the disbelief, shock. The pain evident, possibly fear.

And he couldn’t let Dick turn him, just as he hadn’t when Dick had been screaming ‘No!’ and ‘Stop, please, please—‘ because what Dick had done was horrific and he needed to protect Jason.

Dick had made his choice. He had to live with it.

So Bruce shut the door and flicked off the sound, heading for upstairs.

\--

He found Alfred was with Jason.

Of all the unusual behavior, though, Alfred was actually holding Jason close, a hand on his head and the other around his shoulders.

Jason was slumped against him, clearly asleep.

Bruce wasn’t certain when the boy had last slept. Or when he had.

Alfred’s eyes flicked up to him, and he said, “Master Bruce. Where have you been?”

It was quiet, but accusatory. Bruce didn’t like it. “I did what had to be done.”

Alfred did not like that answer. “What have you done to Master Richard?”

“What needed to be done,” Bruce reiterated, irritation creeping into his voice. “I didn’t kill him, if that soothes you.”

“Master Bruce, this needs to stop,” Alfred said, not unlike when Bruce was a child. “You’re hurting people you care about, and you’re traumatizing T-Jason unnecessarily—“

But Bruce caught the slip, and his eyes narrowed. “You knew,” he accused.

Alfred gave him a disapproving look. “Don’t presume you know—“

“You knew! You’re in on it!” Bruce half-accused, half-realized-aloud.

Miraculously, Jason hadn’t woken up, face pillowed against Alfred’s suit jacket. He looked peaceful, almost, unaware he was sleeping on a traitor.

“Master Bruce, I am saying this as someone who cares about you, and not—“

But Bruce couldn’t let him finish. He was trying to trick him.

He’d quickly reached the only reason Alfred would ever turn on him: it wasn’t Alfred.

“Give me my son,” Bruce growled, “And tell me who you really are.”

Now, the Alfred imposter was looking alarmed. “Master Bruce, you know me. You’ve known me all your life—“

“I know Alfred Pennyworth, not you, and the Alfred I know wouldn’t try to protect a child molester or keep Jason from his family, his real family,” Bruce growled back.

Alfred, however, seemed to move just a twitch to wrap more around Jason, as if to keep him from Bruce, blue eyes showing some alarm—and Bruce tore Jason free of the imposter, ignoring the boy’s frightened, choked gasp of air.

“Master Bruce—“

“You will walk down to the Batcave without protest, or you will regret it,” Bruce said darkly, as Jason seemed to splutter desperately. Tucking him to his chest made him go quiet, still trembling violently.

Alfred stood slowly. The look on his face suggested he was cursing himself, his plans, his choice to impersonate Alfred.

Bruce didn’t let him say a word, stopping Jason’s feeble attempt to twist away as they walked to the Batcave.

He probably should have counted on Jason’s reaction when they down there, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are going downhill fast for sure. I hope y'all liked it! Next chapter will focuse on Bruce finding treatments for 'Jason's' fugue.
> 
> Poor everybody, at this point.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim is clever--but not clever enough.

Jason screamed on seeing Dick, trying to get away, twisting violently out of Bruce's grip. He seemed to lose his sense of direction for a moment, running towards Dick before Bruce could catch him again to soothe him.

"It's all right," Bruce promised, as Jason sobbed incoherently, "He won't hurt you again."

"My god," he heard Alfred say, voice shocked.

The Alfred imposter, of course, not the actual Alfred. He turned to narrow his eyes at him. "You're going in there," he said, not certain that putting the two together was wise, but he didn't know who this imposter was, nor his (or her) abilities.

Alfred's jaw tightened, and he swallowed hard. "Master Bruce--" 

"Get in!" Bruce snarled, and the imposter gave one last look at Jason, who was whimpering in his arms, and headed into the cell.

Dick's head lifted from its place on the floor, suddenly almost alert at hearing them. "Please, I didn't..."

Alfred was crouching next to him quickly, sunk to his knees as he put a hand on Dick's head and examined one of his purple, swollen hands. He was probably wondering how they were going to get out of this with Dick out of the fight.

Perhaps they were partners indeed.

Bruce shut the door, sound still off so Jason wasn't disturbed by what these monsters had done to him. He shouldn't even have to look at them. Bruce wasn't cruel, so he would make certain they had the necessary things to survive, but they deserved worse for what they'd done.

And the way Jason was shaking in his arms seemed to prove that.

He carefully stroked his hand through Jason's air, saying soothingly, "No one will ever hurt you again. I promise."

And something seemed to change in Jason's posture. He stopped shaking, and Bruce could feel him swallow, and carefully push back from Bruce, not breaking out of his arms, but instead meeting his eyes. "I..." he licked his lips, "I remember."

His eyes widened, still locked on Bruce's, as he said, softly, "I remember who I am. Jason Peter Todd. I remember."

Bruce couldn't believe it, was wary, as Jason's eyes ticked to the wall behind Bruce, but Jason continued.

"It...it felt l-like something unlocked," he said, "Just now." His voice was still so soft, but then, this was huge for him, a massive change and probably traumatic.

"What unlocked?"

"I...It's kinda hazy," Jason admitted, "But I remember who I am. I remember when--" his voice cut off painfully, and he continued, "I remember being resurrected."

The pain in the tone made sense. It would be horrific, no doubt about that.

"And...I remember that Alfred and Dick were there," he continued, and his eyes were focused on Bruce's, seemingly full of fear. "I remember. They, uh, they did something--"

"What did they do to you?" Bruce found himself almost growling.

"No, um, all of us--mind control. They didn't want you to know," Jason said, "I think--I think they're released now too. Something musta happened."

And mind control was a good explanation for why Dick would do such a thing. Why Alfred would try to help him do it. Would defend him.

Bruce looked to the cell, and could see Alfred looking back at him, face hard to read. Something sorrowful, as he had his arms around Dick.

Whose face was still screwed up in pain.

Could Jason be lying? Or was he telling the truth?

“Bruce,” Jason said softly, “They can’t hurt me now. They won’t. They love me, like you do.”

No one could love Jason like he did, but…but, if they were indeed released…

“Please. It—it has to be confusing for them. It is for me, and…and I was dead,” Jason said thickly, swallowing hard enough it looked painful. 

And that had Bruce drawing Jason in for a hug. The boy desperately wrapped his arms around him, shaking, and Bruce could believe it, the way Jason clung was so real, the way he shook, as a trauma victim would, and Bruce had to take care of him this time, not let him die again.

Or feel alone again.

He drew back, looking into Jason’s eyes. They were blue, confused and scared, but focused. Sure about what he knew. He put a hand on the side of Jason’s face, and promised, “I will protect you. You’ll always be happy and safe, no one will hurt you again. I promise.”

And he could have cried.

He could have.

He had Jason back, could right the wrongs.

He had a second chance.

Jason nodded, saying, “I know you will. I know.”

His voice was so soft, so small, and Bruce wondered if Jason would have sounded like this if he’d felt more loved and safe. If Bruce had made him feel secure, instead of having him out fighting crazed criminals.

He started to lead Jason towards the stairs, but Jason hesitated, vision turned towards the cell.

“What about them? They’re free now, it’s okay to let them out.”

Bruce considered. “I am going to watch them for a solid 24 hours, to be sure. I can’t take chances with you.”

He thought he could see Jason’s heart stutter. The boy managed, in a shaky voice, “But I miss Alfred. And-and Dick. I mean, it’d help if I could, uh--”

The panic was in the tone.

And Bruce figured out the truth. His eyes narrowed.

“You don’t remember.” 

Jason turned white as a sheet, eyes wide, and stuttered out, “O-of course I do, i-it just m-means—I j-just--”

Bruce’s snarl cut him off, and he turned to run again.

Snagging the back of his shirt, Bruce pulled him back, making the boy start screaming incoherently, flailing and sobbing.

He had him in an instant, held securely as he dragged him to the med bay. If Jason was lying, he had no doubt there was influence from the Alfred imposter and Dick. And he had to do something, had to fix it. Had to make Jason know he shouldn’t lie about something this important.

He threw him onto the bed, fury coursing in his veins.

Jason was immediately trying to scramble off the bed, but he had him cuffed on all four limbs fast. 

The boy was screaming still, a frantic sound to it.

Bruce grabbed the sedative, but then thought better of it.

At least, it alone.

They had antipsychotics in the cave, after all, a small supply. If he administered _both_ , staying within safe doses, of course, he should help clear things up. 

After all, telepathic manipulation could be considered a form of psychosis, and dissociation this severe was in the same general area, Bruce seemed to recall.

He put the largest dose that was safe of the antipsychotic into Jason’s IV, and then the sedative.

Tears were still streaking down Jason’s face, but he calmed. His eyes were looking at Bruce like he was trapped, like he was scared.

Trapped in his own delusions.

And Bruce would help him out of them.

“Please, please,” Jason pleaded, “Please, I just wanna go home, please--”

“Destructive Thought Number Three: that you’re not really you,” Bruce responded sharply, the pronouncement like a whip crack that silenced Jason.

He was breathing heavily, mostly through his nose, and Bruce turned and left.

His head was almost burning with fury, his anger at the way they had destroyed Jason. The way they’d hurt him.

He would make the people behind this pay.

They would suffer, as he and Jason had suffered.

His eyes landed on Dick and Alfred, and he could see the way Alfred moved closer to Dick. Almost shielding him with his body. His blue eyes were sad, but sort of angry.

And that was the imposter, not Alfred.

But Bruce found he had to go upstairs anyway. He had to go back to the scene where he’d found Jason, see what clues he could find.

And perhaps beat the shit out of some criminals.

They deserved it.

It wasn’t just to get his anger out. That would be wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was working on this while still in the early recovery from my head injury. Forgot I wrote much of this then. :P Memory's still a little spotty.
> 
> I hope y'all like it!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce is that much closer to being found out. But will it be too late?

Jason needed to understand he was doing this because he loved him. He loved him, and he couldn’t allow him to be hurt again.

That was what Bruce repeated to himself, over and over, as he felt bones crunch under his blows, the blood spurt, the criminals go down. Jason had to know.

He would. He would remember.

Jason had loved him. He’d loved Jason.

He had a right to care about his son. No one else had before, not anyone who was left alive. Jason deserved to come back to him. He deserved the safety of a father, even if Bruce hadn’t been the best father.

He could acknowledge that. He wasn’t going on some insane trip like Dick had implied. If he were, he’d believe he’d been the best father.

He clearly hadn’t.

He hadn’t been loving enough, protective enough, and hadn’t nurtured enough. Hadn’t been what Jason needed, had been too concerned with himself. And he needed to be concerned for Jason. For his son, and what was best for him.

And it would be clear to anyone not as compromised as Dick that the best thing was to be saved from brainwashing and be home with his family. Too bad Dick was more convincing, and the fact he’d had to neutralize him would automatically make people disbelieve him.

And how on earth would he be able to convince them Alfred wasn’t Alfred? Even he’d been fooled, for god knew how long.

He would have to discover Alfred’s location.

He would.

He would find him, but he had to be even more cautious with Jason than ever. He couldn’t abandon him.

The bat-signal, shining in the sky, caught his attention. It was dark now, foggy, as it often was in Gotham, and Bruce found the top of the Police Station building easily. 

Commissioner Gordon stood, that usual grim look beneath his mustache. “Batman.”

“Gordon,” Bruce returned, walking across to him.

The man had a sheaf of papers—it wasn’t that Gotham didn’t have computer systems, it was that a lot of the cops didn’t trust them. Gordon included. So, he often printed out important things.

“We have a case of a missing person—a kid.” Gordon looked over at him, something warring on his face. “I don’t normally call you in for this kind of thing, but…I’ve seen this kid, and it seems likely he’s in real danger.”

There was still that aggressive bent to his mouth. The stiffness that had been there since Jason died. Gordon hadn’t been officially informed, but the man was a detective. He could put two and two together. He was furious with Batman for putting a child in danger.

Bruce stayed just as stiff. “I see. When did he go missing?”

“Not two days ago—the time his parents noted is in the file. I think it may have been much earlier, frankly.” Gordon handed him the file almost unwillingly, and Bruce was pretty sure he must actually care about the kid personally to call him in, with how fraught things had been.

He opened up the file, but he heard Gordon first.

“I’ve seen him around a lot—he’s always trying to snap photos of you. And your…former partners.” This was said in a way that was very accusing.

But Bruce didn’t care. He was staring at the file, emblazoned ‘Timothy Jackson Drake’ across the top, and the photo.

The photo of _Jason_.

He thought he might see red. He quickly realized that Gordon must be deceived, fooled into thinking Jason was really ‘Timothy.’ The records were decent, and he’d never actually gotten to know Jason—what little they talked at Policeman’s Balls or so on was not enough to recognize Jason on sight, especially given he was dead.

“I can’t help with this,” Bruce said, knowing he didn’t have time to pretend to search for a boy who didn’t exist.

Gordon’s jaw clenched, and he ground out, “You have something more important to do?”

“Yes.” Bruce said it flatly. He was under no obligation to explain to Gordon, to let him in on who ‘Timothy’ actually was. He had been fooled.

Bruce would probably clear it up, if he could, in a while. As it was, it was unlikely the ‘parents’ were actually grieving, since they were probably in on it. It wasn’t as if someone would be suffering without Jason as his false identity.

Gordon looked at him. Looked at him _hard_. And then he growled, “If you took this boy, Batman, I will hunt you down. I won’t stop—goddamnit, after what happened to the last one—“

“Nothing happened to the last one—at least, not what you’re presuming,” Bruce replied, and that was a stretch, since Jason did die, but since he was back to life, he couldn’t be considered a casualty in that way anymore. And Bruce would do better this time. Gordon had no need to worry.

It wasn’t his business anyway.

Gordon looked like he wanted to bite his head off. “Bullshit. I know he died—that something happened to him to make him disappear. To make Nightwing completely leave Gotham. He hasn’t been back since Robin disappeared. And if you took this kid, to make him your next ‘partner’—“

“I didn’t take anyone,” Bruce responded. To take someone, they had to not have come willingly to begin with. It wasn’t kidnapping, anyway. Jason was his son.

Gordon snapped, “Goddamnit, you know he has a family, don’t you? This kid isn’t even an orphan!”

Gordon seemed absurdly set on the idea he was a kidnapper. Bruce wondered if there was something, some rumor that had been spread recently. Some false ‘inside source.’ 

“I don’t steal children,” was all Bruce said flatly, figuring that settled it, and he swung out. Gordon shouted at his back, but he ignored him.

He thought he heard cussing. He really didn’t care.

He had to get back home, he realized. It had been a while—he wasn’t sure how long. But Jason would need him.

\--

He entered the cave without looking at Dick or Alfred. The Alfred imposter, anyway.

Jason was still strapped to the bed. He was still. And Bruce couldn’t help the little leap in his chest, one of fear, until he clearly made out the faint rise and fall of his son’s chest.

He walked at a clip over to Jason’s side, and the boy seemed to wake up instantly upon his getting close. He made a feeble struggle against the straps, an almost whine sound escaping his throat.

Bruce placed a hand on the side of his face, watching the blue eyes track him with seeming fear. No, just apprehension, he was hard to wake up after being sedated. He was probably just a little confused.

Jason’s face was crusted with snot and tears. His face was still reddish, pale, blotched. And the stench told Bruce he’d wet himself. His eyes were bloodshot, of all things, and his tongue seemed to stick to the roof of his mouth as he made an attempt to speak.

No, there was blood on his mouth. He’d bit his own tongue.

He whimpered as Bruce stroked his hair, trying to calm him. He tried to speak again, and it sounded vaguely like ‘please’, like begging.

And Bruce realized then he’d left him here for literal _hours_.

Which, he couldn’t have. He just couldn’t. The clock was wrong, it was…he couldn’t have. He was _protecting_ Jason, he hadn’t left him like for hours. No, it had barely been a half an hour, and Jason had worked himself into a frenzy.

Dick and Alfred’s eyes on him seemed to enter his consciousnes, and he knew then what had caused the frenzy.

They had been taunting and scaring him while he was helpless. 

A dark cloud settled on Bruce’s mind. He wasn’t normally one for violence against a captured foe. He didn’t care for those who harmed the helpless. The defenseless. 

But then, that was what these two had done, wasn’t it?

He only had to remove the threat.

Jason was crying quietly as he moved away, and Bruce assured him, “I’ll take care of them, I promise. You’ll be safe.”

“No…nonono…” Jason managed to plead, apparently not convinced that Bruce could protect him.

Bruce moved towards the cell anyway. He could see Alfred stiffen, moving to shield Dick already. That was very effective play-acting at being Alfred—he would definitely try to protect any of them. This one had done his research.

Hence, Bruce hadn’t noticed at first.

He slid open the door. Dick was trying to move to some kind of defensive position, and seemed to be fumbling at doing so, making little hitching noises with his breath.

“Master Bruce, you don’t want to harm us,” Alfred said firmly. 

“You keep tormenting my son—Jason has been through enough,” Bruce said darkly.

“Master Bruce, legal or not, Master Richard is your son as well—“

“He’s dead to me,” Bruce growled back. If Dick could do something like what he’d done, then there was no reason to pretend he could ever forgive him.

Alfred hunched more protectively in front of Dick, over Dick. It was like he expected Bruce to do anything more than was necessary. 

He wasn’t cruel. He was just trying to protect his son.

Who they continually victimized.

He grabbed Alfred’s coat, the expensive material somewhat slippery between his fingers. He hesitated on feeling the relative frailness of the body he was grabbing, the very real feel, but then he remembered it was a trick and wrenched the old man imposter off. Alfred hit the ground, but was quickly rising, shouting, “Master Bruce, no! Stop!”

There was fear in Dick’s eyes as he tried to get away, but Bruce grabbed him by the hair (he’d always told him long hair was a disadvantage) and pulled him his way. Dick shot out a hand to catch himself and instead let out a shrieking sob of agony, the purpled hand impossible to use. Bruce had made sure of that.

He dragged Dick towards the entrance, and he could see Alfred moving to follow, the old man, the imposter, grabbing his arm—at the same time, Dick managed to swing out a leg, throwing Bruce off balance. 

Bruce stumbled, and, surprisingly, nearly pitched to the floor, Alfred throwing all of his weight onto his arm. Dick didn’t let up, nailing the back of his knee, and he toppled.

Dick wasn’t that heavy alone, but he was sitting on him now, shouting to Alfred to run, to get a zip tie, _do something_ , he’d hold him down, and he drove his goddamn elbow into Bruce’s head, making him see stars given that he’d taken off the cowl so as not to frighten Jason.

His mind was already screaming at him that they would get Jason, the cold horror washing over him that he’d left Jason restrained, anyone could hurt him, and so that gave him the extra strength to shove Dick off, despite his protégé’s best attempts to stay on top, holding him down.

Alfred had gotten out in that short span of time, and Bruce kicked Dick in the hand as he tried to move towards him again, ignoring the scream of pain.

He raced after Alfred, who had gotten to the computer, who had hit the emergency button. The one that alerted what allies Bruce had that there was trouble in the Batcave.

He seized the imposter, shoved him back into the cell without even a thought of how he’d harmed him or Dick, the cell door shutting, locking them in. And then turned off the emergency beacon, quickly typing in his code.

He hoped it wasn’t too late.

He could hear Jason seeming to practically choke in his hyperventilating sobs, and rushed to his side, unstrapping him to help him sit up. He was shaking and cold.

And Bruce knew he had better move fast when he got the alert that Batgirl was on the move.

She was inactive. She shouldn’t be. 

But she was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrote this on a road trip. Life's been a little insane since it seems my mother may indeed be stalking me.
> 
> Which is wonderful.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barbara shows up, and she's not about to buy in to Bruce's story.

Barbara was coming.

Bruce had to figure out what to do about this. He had to either convince her this really was Jason and Dick and Alfred were not really themselves, or he had to lie. He had to hide all the evidence.

He had successfully gotten the Alfred imposter and Dick back into the cell. But they were extremely visible, and Barbara had always liked Dick over him. She’d believe him, especially with the imposter to back him up.

Jason was whimpering. His fingers were curled tightly, his eyes kept darting around. He was sitting up, but kept threatening to sway over. He looked terrible after having to deal with the terror of the ones who’d done this to him having even as much power as they had over him while he was helpless.

Bruce held him close. That was important, even as Barbara was coming, because this was Jason and he was clearly frightened. And Jason’s trembling more than confirmed that it was important, that he needed this.

He reached for Jason’s pants, given that he’d soiled them and they needed switched out for fresh ones. That made Jason move again with a cry, trying to push him away.

This made Bruce’s mind darken again, wondering what would prompt Jason to react that way. Bruce was his _father_ , he knew he could trust him, if he were in his right mind he would. Unquestioningly, he would trust him.

Dick had hurt him. He’d hurt him worse than anyone ever had.

He didn’t care if his brain summoned reasons it might not be true. Jason had _trusted_ Dick, and he had as well. It was worse, because Dick was everything to Jason that should never harm him.

He stopped, stroked back his hair from his forehead, ignored the sob. No, not ignored, just, didn’t let it faze him. He cradled Jason’s head, seeing as his son was having difficulty remaining upright, and brushed away the tears with his thumb. 

“Sh, sh…you’re okay,” he soothed, “I would never hurt you.”

Jason still sobbed, still feebly fought him. So Bruce pinned his arms in that cradle hold, and used his free hand to divest Jason of his dirty pants.

Jason outright screamed, body going a frightened rigid, and Bruce held him tightly through it. He could feel Jason’s heels press hard against the bed, trying to force him back. The fight he had in him was remarkable, and yet another reason Bruce knew he was Jason.

Of course, unsurprisingly to Bruce, Jason had a rash. But, even thought Barbara was coming, he stopped to stroke Jason’s face, assuring him it was all right, that he would not be hurt. It wasn’t fair to scare the shit out of him if Bruce could help it, Jason had already been through enough.

He swiftly wiped him up, despite Jason’s squirming, and then put fresh hospital pants on him.

Jason was softly sobbing now, and Bruce lifted him bridal style to their second bed, and left him. He looked into his eyes, letting him know wordlessly that he trusted him to not try to run.

Jason said nothing.

And Bruce prepared for Barbara, for convincing her, because it wasn’t fair to Jason to stash him away. That would scare him more, and he was already so frightened.

The batcave, the sound of it allowing her entrance, the sound of a _motorcycle_ , caught Bruce a little off guard.

What if she had brought someone with her? What if it was more than he could stop? What if…but he had to focus on now, on Jason’s haunted blue eyes watching the entrance like it might bring the Joker himself.

No. No one should leave him feeling that frightened. Not ever again.

The motorcycle had a sidecar. It was an old one of theirs, one that could split if needed, and the sidecar wasn’t always strictly for people. It held Barbara now, her flashing red hair and her flashing green eyes undisguised by her cowl.

On the motorcycle, however, was Dinah Lance, aka the Black Canary. And she _was_ dressed to fight, in costume and with a severe look in her eyes.

Black Canary had not really meddled in his affairs before. Bruce glanced to Jason, who swayed a little on the bed, and then looked to Barbara. “Barbara, I’m glad you’re here—“

“Are you? Are you really?” Barbara’s sharp tone demanded, as she detached her wheelchair from the sidecar. She rolled over with a look that said she might try to kill him. “Because I think me showing up is the last thing you wanted.”

Dinah flanked her. 

“Yes, I am happy to see you,” Bruce insisted, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “Why on earth wouldn’t I be? It’s been hellish trying to manage this.”

He made a sweeping gesture.

“But you care about Jason. More than Dick ever did, even. You care about kids, and what happened to him—“

“Bruce,” Barbara said, a grimace on her face, “The Joker…he killed Jason. He hurt me. I know that. But you don’t need to bring it up every time—“

“Barbara,” Bruce said impatiently, “ _This_ is Jason.”

Jason flinched at being gestured at, at clear attention being directed to him.

Barbara’s lips set. She was clearly taking in the cave, and her eyes narrowed at seeing Dick and Alfred. “I see. And hurting everyone around you and him helps him…how, Bruce?”

Bruce flinched. He wasn’t hurting everyone—they were making him. They were forcing him by making this so much harder than it had to be. How did Barbara not see that? 

He felt uncomfortable under her sharp gaze.

She was going to take Jason. This much, he had deduced. Barbara was never on his side, more of a wild card. There was never anything he could completely expect from her in terms of obedience or loyalty. She did what she wanted.

He’d never liked that, he realized. He might’ve pretended, but now he knew he hated it.

“Barbara, please leave if you’re not here to help,” he said stiffly. He turned to Jason, reaching out with a tissue to clean his face. Jason whimpered and pulled back, falling heavily onto his elbows on the bed. It sickened Bruce to see what they’d done to him. He was still a child, and he was so goddamn frightened. No one had the right to do this to his son.

“I am here to help, Bruce,” Barbara said solemnly. “Step away from Jason, and please come quietly. Or this’s going to get very loud very fast.”

Bruce’s blood boiled and bubbled under his skin. How dare they. How dare she threaten him, how dare they think he would ever hurt Jason. He clutched Jason to him, knowing how utterly vulnerable the boy was right now, and growled at them, “You’ll take him over my dead body.”

He was a father. It was a thing he hadn’t completely understood until Jason.

And like a father, he would die before he let his child be hurt again.

“Fine. Have it your way,” Barbara responded, lips tight.

Things were about to head south, but Bruce was always prepared for that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta da! *cringe* I'm sorry this took so long. Real life has been...different. Not strictly bad, just busy. And I really have not been writing as much in general.
> 
> I hope this makes sense, though!

**Author's Note:**

> This is fun. I hope y'all like it! It's gonna be a little darkish.


End file.
